chief of boyhood was almost foreign to his nature.

Presently his mother came to the door, and called out, "Henry, where's father?"

"He's gone to the b b-barn," he would have said, but the effort to articulate the word was vain, and he could only point despairingly to the open doors of the barn, which stood still further down the slope.

"Dear me!" said the mother, half in pity, half in impatience, as she went back into the house, “ I wish you could talk like other folks."

Henry turned again and leaned against the bars; but if there had been no expression on his face, there certainly was now. "Like other folks!" The words smote heavily on his heart. He had known from infancy that he was not like other folks. His tongue had always refused to perform its office like the clamorous voices of his brothers, and many an hour he had passed in silence, because he dreaded the laughter which his attempt to talk called forth at school, and still more the impatient inattention with which they were received at home. His physical frame was slight, and he never undertook to join in the sports of his companions without being reminded by a twinge of pain in his side and limbs, or a throbbing in his head, that he was not like other folks. His schoolmates sometimes called him stupid, and he half believed he was-he certainly was not like them. But they were mistaken. Unlike them, and far inferior in physical powers, he had a mind in that frail casket that was as far above the common standard as the tall pines around his home towered above the shrubs at their feet. This, however, was not yet to be seen, or only showed itself in the morbid sensitiveness with which he shrank from everything said to him, and buried himself in a reserve very naturally mistaken for stupidity. He had undertaken to assist in the hay-field the day before, but his father had said that morning at the breakfast-table, Henry need not go into the field to-day. He worked himself sick yesterday without doing anything at all. He was sure he did not know what the boy was ever going to be good for. If it was not for his tongue he would try and make a schoolmaster of him." Oh, how this grated on his ears, and his mother's sigh, as she stooped over the kettle, made his heart ache.

So he stayed at home and helped his mother, and at sunset he leaned against

the bars, and thought of himself as a useless, dependent being, and almost wished that he might die; and for a few minutes great tears blinded his eyes and rolled without restraint down his cheeks.

Five years passed away. Our poor boy had grown tall, and increased his knowledge of books much faster than his brothers. But he was still pale and sickly, shy and a stammerer, and very few realised how much of a mind he had. His father sometimes said, "Henry ought to know something by this time; he is always studying; it is a pity he cannot turn it to some account.' These words, despairingly as they were uttered, gradually became the star of hope to Henry. He had no idea, it is true, how it was to be done, but still he felt sure he might make something if he could only be cured of his stammering. He did not know that he could be cured; he had never heard of such a thing; but he determined to go ahead in spite of it, and sought and obtained his father's permission to enter the academy at C-. All seemed new and strange to him as he entered the sombre-looking room and looked upon the crowd of halfgrown boys and girls, and the pale-browed man who presided over them. He took his place to read with his class for the first time, with a heart beating terribly between his dread of exposing himself and his determination to persevere. He undertook to read, but while his flushed face and swollen veins showed the effort he was making, only one or two inarticulate, halfchoking sounds escaped him. His classmales laughed, and poor Henry felt the old despairing thought coming back with tenfold force, that he should "never be like other folks." The teacher saw the difficulty, and came at once to the rescue. "Let me read that for you," said he, "and then you must take a full breath and read it just as I do." Henry obeyed, and to his utter astonishment read through the section, sentence by sentence, after his teacher, without hesitating on a single word. It was something he had never done before and it seemed as if a miracle had been wrought upon him. After school he sought the teacher to know how it had been done. He explained the matter to him, and he learned with unspeakable delight that his stammering could be cured. And many an hour after that, the teacher, when the wearying labours of the day were over, in spite of the cheerful fireside at home, and

sermons waiting to be prepared (for he was pastor as well as teacher), stayed in the school-room, and toiled patiently with his unfortunate pupil. For this he was rewarded by the young man's gradual improvement. In this manner several months passed away. Henry went quietly on with his studies. The young men laughed at his slow and somewhat awkward manner, and the girls listened when he talked, and ran giggling away whenever he undertook to show them any little politeness. Henry minded but little about this. He was not like other folks, but the germ of hope had been planted in his heart and he was willing to "bide his time." At length the two-fold duties of pastor and teacher destroyed the health of his patient instructor, and he was obliged to bid scholars and people farewell.

But

Another period of four or five years passed away, and we find the minister, with health partially restored, presiding over a church in one of our busiest cities. He bore the heat and burden of the day, and sometimes felt almost discouraged with sowing beside all waters and seeing little or no good result from his labours. One day, however, a bright reminiscence of the past shone in upon his weariness, and gave joyful promise of light in the future. A stranger came to his study-door, made himself known as his former pupil, and thanked him with all the fulness of heartfelt gratitude for his instructions. "You made me all that I am or ever shall be." It appeared, as he related his story, that he had gone on with the impetus given him in the old academy, taught school for the means, finished his education, and became a preacher of the Gospel.

He was an humble yet successful labourer in the vineyard. Not like others, to be sure, but fully satisfied to be different, he could say with the beloved apostle, "Now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that when He shall appear, we shall be like HIM; for we shall see Him as He is."

WHY TOILEST THOU THUS ?

Far in the illimitable depths, a cherub watched the planet earth gliding noiselessly through space. "How pure it looks!" he exclaimed. "How serene ! It must be

full of peace!" An archangel, who stood beside him, replied, "We will go thither;"

But the sun rose higher and higher, passed its meridian, and declined toward the west, and there was scarcely a pause in the eager industry of hand and brain. Sadness stole over the cherub, but he said again, "At eventide there will surely ascend a hymn like those sung by the upper choirs."

Alas, the day faded, twilight purpled the landscape, and then gave place to the starry night, yet only from a few scattered worshippers had he caught the accents of grateful praise. Disappointed and sad, he turned to his companion, and asked, “Why toil they thus ?"

"Ask them, and learn," replied the archangel, "if indeed they can tell thee why."

A merchant sat in his counting-room, surrounded by weary clerks. All his generous faith, all his noble aspirations for a higher and purer life, had been crushed out by the worldliness which had eaten into his heart. The cherub looked sorrowfully upon him, as he asked, "Why toilest thou thus ?".

"I am building my name into great wharves," replied the merchant. "I am working it in marble upon vast warehouses. I am sending it over the sea in ships, freighted with wealth equal to that of kings."

A student sat in his library, eagerly writing words which should stir the pulses of thousands yet unborn. The cherub watched his flying pen for a moment, and then asked, "Why toilest thou thus ?"

"I strive," replied the student, "to wrest from Nature some wondrous secret, to ob. tain some hint from her mysterious and silent processes, which, given to the world, will make my name a shrine for the wor ship of successive generations."

A poet transfused into his verse the matchless melody he had caught from the many voices of Nature. Now, it swelled grandly like the uprising of ocean; now, it prattled like the silver brook; now, it lapsed softly away like the smooth flowing of deep

- "I am twining my name with the ages," replied the poet, "that they may float on, unparted for ever."

. An artist touched and retouched a picture on which he had bestowed the whole wealth of his kindling genius. The cherub scanned the life-like attitudes,the harmonious colouring, the breathing truth on the canvass before him, and then asked, "Why toilest thou here?"

"Hour by hour," returned the artist, "I claim from posterity the grand dower of remembrance; day by day I link myself to that band whose names are the world's crown and glory."

A chieftain lay pillowed upon his shield, and wrapped from the night air in a soiled and tattered banner. Around him slept his soldiery, troop after troop, each by its own standard, ready for the battle which at sunrise might, perhaps, decide a kingdom's fate. The cherub felt the vast armament was gathered for no peaceful purpose, and he sighed as he asked, "Why toilest thou thus?"

"I toil," said the chief, "for a name which my country shall wear proudly like a diadem, and which the centuries shall call to each other to the end of time."

A child sat amidst a group of dusky faces, telling in simple language of the crucifixion of our Lord. Her eyes were moist, her cheeks flushed, and her hands trembled with emotion. The cherub folded her in her pinions, as he whispered, " Why toilest thou thus ?"

"I toil," replied the child, "that these may find their names written in the Lamb's Book of Life."

Then the cherub asked of the archangel, "Shall they all toil in vain ?"

The archangel made no reply, but silently folded back the veil of eternity.

The cherub looked down the far vista, and saw of all whom he had questioned, not one was remembered, save only the little child!

A REMARKABLE MAN. There stands in the small and quiet town of Framlingham a building with lancet

shaped windows, tastefully adorned with ivy, jessamine, and other evergreens, and flowering climbing plants. On the side of this building next the road is a black marble tablet with this inscription, " In memory of Thomas Mills, who died January 13th, 1703, aged 80, founder of the adjoining almshouses, and donor of several estates to charitable purposes; also, of his faithful servant, William Mayhew."

Within this edifice is a handsome tomb, built over the grave of Mr. Mills. This tomb-house is situated in the garden belonging to the house in which Mr. Mills resided. On the top of the tomb lies a black marble slab, with letters cut in it which tell the facts made known by the outer tablet concerning him who was buried there. On the north side of the tomb is a stone laid even with the floor, under which lies William Mayhew. Against the walls of the building covering these graves, benches are placed so that the trustees of the almshouses may more conveniently use the top of the tomb as a table, when settling their accounts.

The almshouses are eight in number, two of which were founded by the faithful servant before named.

The almspeople receive five shillings each weekly, and about £24's worth of coals and £10's worth of clothing are distributed among them annually. The trustees also pay £19 5s. yearly to a schoolmaster, for teaching poor boys, and distribute money, blankets, and coals, among the poor parishioners.

In the Harmer MSS.,* the history of Mr. Mills is thus narrated.

"An honest man, who lives in the neigh. bourhood of Framlingham, and whose mother was housekeeper to Mr. Mills, in the latter part of his life, gives, with a great deal of simplicity, an account of him, derived from what he had heard his mother say. He says, 'That he came out of the Shires, and was a tailor by trade; that travelling to Framlingham he lighted on a wheel. wright's shop, and seeing the people at work, he thought with himself, he was stout and strong, he should like that business better than his own, and at length bound himself to the wheelwright. While he was with him he used to preach to a congregation of the Baptist persuasion in a

barn. His master allowed him no time to study, but he used to buy candles, and after his work was over used to study of nights, which if his master discovered used to set him a swearing.

"At length his master threatened to go and hear him one Sabbath, thinking, as he said, he would be, much confounded. To his great surprise when he went he was upon a subject which touched him to the quick. A reformation was soon wrought in master and mistress.

"After this came persecuting times, and Mills was obliged to hide for a great while. His wife used to take her hobby with bags and baskets, and go to the jail two or three times a week, and carry victuals and drink to their acquaintances in prison. Once he had the curiosity to go himself in disguise, and narrowly escaped being taken, for soon after he was gone the jailor was informed who he was, and swore he wished he had known him, and then he would have been spared the future trouble of apprehending him.""

been a tailor at Grundisburgh, near Wood. bridge in Suffolk. His master, the wheelwright, after his conversion, showed great affection and esteem towards him, and hay. ing no child, and being blessed with an independence, he eventually turned the business over to him. The wife of Mr. Mills was a widow lady named Groome, who was possessed of considerable property, and through whom he became owner of those immense estates which by his will were devoted to charitable uses. Mrs. Mills died disordered in her mind. Her mental derangement was occasioned by the death of a child, which was choked by attempting to swallow a gold ring which she had given to it off her finger to play with. The place where Mr. Mills used to preach is called Lincoln's barn. The congregation seems to have broken up soon after his death.

The fortunate preaching wheelwright is not likely to be forgotten. Many poor recipients of his bounty have blessed his memory, and all to whom the story of his life is known, must admire the Divine goodness that made him rich in faith and charity as well as in gold.

WORKING-MEN'S CHILDREN THE BLESSING OR THE CURSE OF SOCIETY.

In

It is you who supply our factories with hands, our ships with seamen, our army with soldiers, and our houses with servants. Upon the character of those whom you send forth every year to the world, depend the good and happiness of millions. your houses the real prosperity of the nation is determined more than in the Houses of Parliament. In the name of thousands, I say, have mercy upon us; and give us sober, industrious, honest men and women.

Are your sons to be employed as workmen ? If so, they are of importance to their fellow-workmen and employers. They can become a strength or weakness, a blessing or curse, to both. Let us then have sober, steady men, whose words and example will be health and comfort to all around them. Give us, also, those to whom we can entrust our money and our property in our shops and counting-houses; and to whom we can entrust our lives when travel. ling under their guidance by land or sea.

But, oh, deliver us from the blaspheming infidel, the filthy sensualist, the insane drunkard, the coarse and rude savage, the leader of riots, the contriver of plots, the spouter of nonsense, the preacher of rebellion, the instigator of strikes, and the tyrant of all!.

Are your daughters to be servants in our houses? Give us such as are sometimes to be found, whom we can trust, respect, and cherish, as valued friends of the family; in whose keeping our goods, our character, our children, are safe. But save us, we beseech you, from the domestic affliction of a dishonest, lying, quarrelling, disobedient, rude, selfish, or unfaithful servant, who, though leaving her place as soon as possible, may only make way for another of the same description !

In the name, too, of many a young tradesman, we implore that the wife whom he receives from your fireside may be such an one as can be a companion for an intelligent christian man, an economical housekeeper for a working man, a christian mother to his children; and not a thoughtless, hand

less, tawdry slattern, who keeps her house like a pig-sty, and her children like pigs; who idles her time in gossiping with her neighbours, or even in drinking with them, -for such companionship of mothers is by no means rare,-thus driving her husband to ruin and misery, and tempting him to riot or desertion.

Once more, in the name of the christian church, I pray you to spare no pains to confer upon us the unspeakable blessing of attentive hearers, reverential worshippers, and intelligent, well-principled members, who will help the church in every scheme of christian usefulness, and not only be the friends of missions to the heathen abroad, but also fill up that great gap in society, by being themselves missionaries, by their words and life, to the heathen at home, among whom they reside and labour. Kind neighbours to the poor, sympathising friends of the sick, examples of piety to the unbelievers, are wanted in our country villages, and in the lanes and streets of our cities, where the working classes alone reside; and your firesides can furnish such! We want christian working men and women, to strengthen our congregations by the urbanity of their manners, the steadfastness of their attachments, and the soundness of their principles; who will not forsake the assembling of themselves together, but consider one another, and provoke to love and good works ;-and your houses may thus be helpful to the house of God! Shall you, by ignorance or neglect, not only deprive us of such good, but add to those social evils under which we already groan? Will you empty our churches and crowd our whisky shops? Will you only increase our heathen at home, and that godless population who are our weakness and disgrace? Or, if you land your chil dren in our churches, will they, from want of proper training, prove a constant anxiety and weakness to us;-slothful, yet busy with everything but their own duties; schismatic, and never united but when causing division; proud, and seeking to

rule every person but themselves; vain, ever esteeming themselves better than others; selfish, and never pleasing their neighbours for their good or for their edification; presumptuous and self-willed, thinking evil of dignities; a little leaven, yet leavening with evil the whole lump? Oh, parents, think how much the wellbeing of christian congregations depends upon the early training you give to those who furnish the vast majority of their members!

And, finally, how do you know but those children of yours are destined to play a great part in the world, and one which may be so good or bad, as that millions may rejoice or mourn because of them? You know that many men, whose names are famous in history, have come from the firesides of the poor. Generals, admirals, judges, ministers, legislators, aye, and kings too! So have great and notorious criminals! So have thousands upon thousands who have become wealthy, and, as citizens, employers, magistrates, exercised an immense influence upon the good and happiness of the nation! Some such may now be at your fireside!

Had Simon thought of what his son Judas might have been, would this not have affected his home education of the boy? What if the mother of Napoleon, and of his brother kings and sister queens, had considered what those might possibly become who were around her humble fireside in Corsica? "What a charge that would have been!" you perhaps exclaim. But you will see, by and bye, that this is nothing, when compared with what your children may yet become as immortal beings. But enough, I hope, has been said under this head to make you feel that, even in so far as this world is concerned, your boys and girls, who are growing up around you to be men and women, are of immense and incalculable importance to society. Have a care, then, how you bring them up!*

toys, because, you know, this is Saturday evening."

"Oh, yes, mamma, so it is. I had almost